We entered the cafe and chose a table slightly to the rear. It was
a contrast to the cold outside; the lights so bright, the glasses
clinking, laughter and music. A few young people were dancing. I
sat down; in a moment the lightness and jollity had stirred my
blood. Hobart took a chair opposite. The place was full of beauty.
In the back of my mind blurred the image of Rhamda. I had never
seen him; but I had read the description. I wondered absently at
the persistence.
I have said that I do not believe in fate. I repeat it. Man should
control his own destiny. A great man does. Perhaps that is it. I
am not great. Certainly it was circumstance.
In the back part of the room at one of the tables was a young man
sitting alone. Something caught my attention. Perhaps it was his
listlessness or the dreamy unconcern with which he watched the
dancers; or it may have been the utter forlornness of his
expression. I noted his unusual pallor and his cast of
dissipation, also the continual working of his long, lean fingers.
There are certain set fixtures in the night life of any city. But
this was not one. He was not an habitue. There was a certain
greatness to his loneliness and his isolation. I wondered.
Just then he looked up. By a mere coincidence our eyes met. He
smiled, a weak smile and a forlorn one, and it seemed to me rather
pitiful. Then as suddenly his glance wandered to the door behind
me.
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